Caring for the Grimm
by Giggles96
Summary: Following an encounter with an impish Hexenbiest, Nick is not quite himself and Monroe is left to deal with the consequences. Fluff and cuteness ensues! One-shot.


_Okay, so we've got another strange one, folks. Though perhaps you'll enjoy this one-shot, all the same? The Grimm universe is a bizarre one anyhow, so… here's hoping I can get away with this._

_Now, it's really up to you whether or not you view this as slash, pre-slash, or whatever. I didn't really write this with slash in mind. I was thinking more brotherly... Fatherly, even? However, I suppose, if you really wish, it can be perceived that way._

_Disclaimer: these characters do not belong to me._

* * *

-GRIMM-GRIMM-GRIMM-

* * *

The last time this happened, he chipped a damn tooth.

It grew back reasonably quickly, but that really isn't the point.

In times of extreme stress, Monroe has the regrettable habit of gnashing and grinding his teeth while attempting to repress the compulsion to Shift. It is difficult and unpleasant, and, largely, an experience he typically tends to avoid.

Now.. now was one of those times. As a matter of fact, it would seem it is beginning to become a regular occurrence. Ever since a particular Baby Grimm waltzed into his life. At this rate, he won't have any teeth left come forty.

"Have you lost your flippin' mind?!" Picture his surprise when he opened his door to find his favourite Grimm with his arms wrapped around his body, trembling on the porch step, and looking close to blacking out at a moment's notice.

"I-I don't," Nick's legs teeter dangerously on the edge of concaving and collapsing. His breaths come in great, wet gasps. "I don't know-I don't know what happened."

One more glance at his hunched, pained form and Monroe takes pity on him. He scoops the smaller man up and carries him over to the couch, depositing him there gently. "How about you start at the beginning?" he encourages kindly. "Where were you? Is it a case you're involved in or an unrelated wesen matter?"

Sweat collects on Nick's forehead, giving it a sickly sheen, and his skin itself is drained of blood, wan and frail and disquieting. "It-it was the Hexenbiest. I caught up with her at the bridge. I knew-" He coughs weakly. "I knew she was behind it. Three girls. All missing the same week. It had to be connected."

"Hexenbiest?" Monroe nervously bites his lip. "What did she do?"

Nick is very, very careful not to react.

His eyes narrow.

"Nick?" he prompts. Still nothing.

He waits. And waits.

And waits.

"_What_ did she _do?"_ Monroe finally snaps more sharply than he'd intended.

"I don't know," he states and even without the reek of untruths hanging in the air between them, jagged and bitter, Monroe could discern as much from the almost imperceptible way his voice falters.

"You're lying. I can smell it."

The man's voice is small and his mouth pinches with worry. "You'll be angry."

"Tell. Me."

"I tried not to. I swear I did."

Monroe raises a brow. "Tried not to what?"

"Breathe in the dust. She threw it at my face," Nick divulges reluctantly. "But then I tackled her, and…" He pauses and wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Long story short, I killed her and she was dead and I'd been so caught up in the excitement that I'd forgotten…"

"To hold your breath," Monroe concludes unhappily. When Nick doesn't volunteer anymore information, he presses, "Do you know what it was she used? Do you have any idea?"

"Some," he grimaces.

Something in his voice sparks the other's curiosity. "Oh, yeah?"

"She was laughing. Before," he explains. "She told me she'd seen me earlier, thought it was _cute _or something. Said...said I was like a..a p-puppy running 'round terrorizing the wesen with my 'refreshingly keen enthusiasm.'" He gulps, hesitating. "It wasn't intended to kill, you know. The powder. Only to temporarily disarm." By the look on his face, Nick expects the Blutbad to comprehend the full magnitude of what he's saying on his own.

After a few minutes, he does.

"Ohhhh," he breathes, jaw dropping. "I get it. Oh God, really? I've heard of that. It's the-"

"Don't. Say. It."

"The-"

"Seriously-"

"The one that convinces you that you're _actually_ a puppy. Makes you do all kinds of crazy shit, I hear. Wears off after a while, though, on the plus side. Depends on the amount you inhaled."

He is close, so very close, to bursting out laughing.

Nick glowers. "I hate you."

"S'your own fault," Monroe chuckles, a combination of relief and humour. "You had me going for a minute there. Scared me a bit, imagining all of the terrible things that could be wrong with you."

"This _is _terrible."

"Manageable," he swiftly counters.

"Terrible," Nick insists.

"Preferable."

"Terrible."

"Comical."

"Terrib-"

With an ear-popping yawn, his eyes fall shut and with his frown evening out into stillness, the Grimm quietly passes out.

* * *

-GRIMM-GRIMM-GRIMM-

* * *

_I'm a moron,_ Monroe thinks as he contemplates the upcoming days and shudders. _An absolute moron._

This is karma, isn't it?

Nick was right.

He should never have joked about this.

It's going to be... fan-frickin-terrible.

* * *

-GRIMM-GRIMM-GRIMM-

* * *

Pinned down by two obstinate unfurled arms, Monroe groans at the sight of his favourite cardigan being obliterated right before his horror-stricken eyes, merciless tugs upwards, threads straining and snapping, as Nick shakes his head back and forth in unparalleled frustration - his limbs too long and gangly, bending in all the wrong places, while his teeth ache without the anticipated relief.

It doesn't take a genius to work it out.

Monroe smacks his forehead in disbelief.

"How in the world are you _teething_ right now?! Really, Nick, I can't possibly emphasise this enough. You. _Are. __**Not **_some yipping, over-excited canine!"

Nick perks up at the sound of his name, but when neither food nor belly rubs are immediately forthcoming, soon returns to his imperative task.

"Seriously? That's it? I don't even get a leave-me-alone or a whatcha-doin'? That's harsh." Annoyance rapidly building, he shoves a hand through his hair and huffs out a breath. "I've gotta tell you, man. This delusion you've got going? Is ridiculous even by our standards. I mean, come on! Where's all your alleged fur, huh? Or those charming little floppy ears? You don't even have a tail! Which, for the record, I am exceptionally grateful for, considering the fact that even without that sweeping monstrosity, you've still managed to knock over not one, but four, up until that point, perfectly functioning clocks!" He pauses, hisses inwards. "My fault, I suppose, for leaving them _nowhere in reach_! 'Course I get the worst end of the deal. God, would it kill you to stop chewing on the sweater my mother knitted for my birthday?!"

The answer, naturally, is yes.

Yes, not only would ceasing to tear up the cherished garment assure his imminent demise, but apparently, would also result in the annihilation of everything the young detective holds dear - judging by the tortured howl he emits when his dull incisors fail to cut deep enough, the satisfying sounds of shredding becoming fewer and farther between, soon discovering that the jacket around his broad shoulders is terribly problematic and restricting for the mandatory wriggling that pulling clothing to pieces demands.

In one fit of passion, Nick - and this is the honest-to-God truth, Monroe swears - wrenches around and sinks his teeth into his own shoulder. Leather, the Blutbad notes, as the Grimm's face screws up in disgust, is not puppy-Nick's favourite flavour.

"Okay, that's enough," he calmly intervenes. Monroe grips the edge of a sleeve and carefully, delicately pulls.

Instinctively, his jaw clamps down harder as a growl trembles in his throat.

He sighs. "You are quite the little ray of sunshine, aren't you?"

Another ominous rumble.

"Alright, alright!" Monroe raises his arms in a gesture of surrender and slowly backs away. "You know, for a puppy, you are not exactly itching to please. Is this like a Grimm thing or a Nick one? Because, truth be told, I always thought you kinda had the whole bright-eyed, insatiably curious, fiercely-loyal thing down. And don't try to tell me I'm the only one to have ever referenced your kicked puppy-dog look, either. I'm surprised. Maybe I underestimated just how much damage puppies are capable of, or perhaps I simply underestimated _you_, which, now that I think about it, was really pretty stupid of me, because you get into life-threatening situations all the time and when was the last time you called for back-up-"

"Please, stop talking," Nick suddenly grits out between bites. Monroe jumps back, stunned.

"What the-" he cuts off, eyes widening to a comical degree. "You could talk this whole time?!"

"Busy," is the only inattentive response he gets.

"Busy? Why, you little-" Chest heaving in exasperation, Monroe glares furiously. "My mother spent weeks on that cardigan, asshole!"

Nick doesn't seem to care in the slightest as he bunches up the soft material and nuzzles his face into the warmth. "Mine." His voice is muffled, but Monroe hears the possessively spoken word clearly and rolls his eyes.

"No, not yours. _Mine_," he explains patiently, the claws of his wolf curling as he shuffles closer. Okay, so he's a _tinie tiny _bit territorial. It's one of his less-than-favourable traits, generally. But it's _his _stuff, for crying out loud! Not some bull-headed, temperamental _pup's_!

The confused Grimm rolls and writhes around in order to get comfortable, and then exposes his face momentarily to scowl, before burrowing deeper under his makeshift blanket, crushing his nose against the couch as he curls up and squashes his legs to his chest.

Just when Monroe is sure he isn't going to reply, (scarcely daring to hope he'd gotten the message) Nick whimpers, "Hurts."

Infuriation punctured by that single syllable and slinking off at once, the other man's face crumples in sympathy for his best friend, whilst his inner wolf snarls.

_Protect, Protect, Protect, Protect-_

_Mine, Mine, Mine, Mine-_

At this instant, he's not thinking about property - rather, the poor fellow he's gallantly taken under his wing.

"It's okay, buddy. It's alright. I'll try and find something to help, okay? I'll make the pain go away."

His mind might _know_ that this is Nick, his human partner in crime, but Monroe's wesen side is claiming otherwise with every breath. _Pup_, it declares without hesitation. _Young. To be cared for. Protected._

As he smoothes down Nick's tousled hair, stroking lightly in comfort, an innate _need _to groom the vulnerable youth - to soothe and strengthen the bond -pulsates through Monroe's chest and he tries his best to shove the urge down.

Petting is similar, in a sense, so it will just have to do. He's aware he'll have to leave Nick's side in a matter of minutes if he wishes to ease the pain fully, but for now, he can't bear the thought. Wolves tend to be rather physical in their affection, and touching directly is a sure-fire way to dispel any and all worries.

He butts the younger man gently with his head and taking him by surprise, Nick turns and laps his bearded cheek with the all the enthusiasm of a lovable, rowdy puppy that has no idea just what sort of danger lurks inside the creature he's snuggling up to. Figures.

Monroe chuckles to himself, then skilfully removes himself from his increasingly peculiar predicament with a stern, "Down, boy," harvesting some power from within and letting it bleed into his tone. And… lo' and behold, it works!

Nick falls back, panting, his lips stirring and stretching into a goofy grin that Monroe knows with absolute certainty he will tease him about later.

He blinks at the sudden obedience.

Monroe definitely, without a doubt, _does not _find the expression sweet or adorable.

"O-kay, then," he drawls awkwardly. He rubs the nape of his neck. "Good boy. Now, ah, sit down and don't move, you hear me? Stay. _Stay_." He repeats the command for good measure even as Nick does just that, all the while staring at the blutbad with features practically melting into delectable, gooey scrumptiousness with trust and something just shy of fuzziness, a trace of drool trickling down his chin.

Dammit. He did not sign up for this.

"Aw, hell," Monroe grouches. "There is no denying it. You," he points an accusing finger, "are frickin' adorable."

Nick cocks his head in bewilderment, and Monroe has the sudden, inexplicable desire to _coo_.

He throws his hands up in the air.

"That does it. I am so outta here."

* * *

-GRIMM-GRIMM-GRIMM-

* * *

While Monroe may not be the biggest fan of modern pain killers, he will admit that, in a time when Nick is too - for lack of a better word - rambunctious to sit still for long enough without potentially nibbling at something or another, (namely the-flannel-loving man's wrist when he tries to hand him something or pat the idiot's head) and has forgotten how to use his hands correctly for the time being (meaning for other purposes than being fascinated by their un-paw-like nature), and so is unable to knock back some of the good old-fashioned herbal remedies, then maybe, just maybe, they might have some merit.

He is unashamed to admit that he tucked a couple away in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich he'd given the pup for lunch, which he knows is one of human-Nick's favourite (luckily, that hasn't changed). Nick licked away at the oozing sides for a moment or two, before ultimately deciding it was, indeed, acceptable and gobbling it up straight away.

In the end, his sticky face and hair was, well, a terror in and of itself, and he kept trying to play tug-of-war with the cloth when Monroe tried to wipe him down, but the sight of the Grimm arching his back with a high-pitched yawn and blinking sleepily, certainly made it worth it. Especially as it provided Monroe with a solid three hours to clean up the house and complete some chores while the young one napped in peace.

As endearing as Nick could be in this state, he was also a rotten, evil, deceptively innocent, little demon-pup that he, you know, _occasionally_ fanaticised about strangling.

It was cute and all, but there was only so much whining and disorder and upheaval he could take. For the most part, Nick recognised the Blutbad as the dominant one, but he was extremely friendly (possibly overly so) and clumsy and every now and then, he took notions and nothing, absolutely _nothing_ could deter him.

The teething problem was unfortunate, (_and utterly unnecessary, really, _his resentful side silently chimes) but Monroe managed to get by through purchasing a few squeaky toys that, thankfully, kept him occupied and away from his prized breakables for several hours.

Monroe snapped quite a lot of pictures, too, but only because he was a guy and Nick was his friend, and sometimes that meant he was entitled to be a jerk. And if part of him felt it was only fair, taking into account the full extent of mutilation to his home, then, hey, no-one had to know.

He had also made sure to call into the precinct to inform the Captain of their odd circumstances, who was only too happy to sign off on Nick's enforced vacation. The man even confessed, privately, between themselves, that perhaps it would be good for the stubborn workaholic in the long run, and perhaps Nick needed the break.

What Monroe didn't anticipate was his new puppy's unwavering neediness. Nick doesn't like to be left alone, he's scared of thunder, the washing machine, the TV, loud noises, _any _sounds from outside at night, even _doors_, sometimes, if they shut unexpectedly. He'll sit ram-rod straight for, like, ten minutes straight before dissolving into shivers, and it breaks Monroe's heart every time.

It gives a whole new meaning to the puppy-dog look and by God, Nick has his perfected. Never mind the detective never living this down, _Monroe _will never live it down. All Nick will have to do is widen his eyes minutely, tilt his head ever-so-slightly and furrow those tragic eyebrows, and that'll be it. Done.

Once or twice, though, he had to wonder.

Have some of his fears been transferred over? Is he plagued with doubt like this constantly? Obviously not by the same things. But is he merely channelling this into something else? Does the baby Grimm worry and fret over other things on a daily basis, amongst all the craziness, and is simply too proud to tell?

Monroe vows to find out, if only because this Nick is so _open _now and he's not entirely sure he wants to return to before. Before, his eyes may not have watered. Chances are, he nevertheless hurt.

* * *

-GRIMM-GRIMM-GRIMM-

* * *

"Ughhhh…" He moans lowly into the pillow, the movement causing drool to spill out onto the-

Hang on. He cracks open a lid.

Is that a…?

No. Frickin'. Way.

"Nick!" The hollering of his name catches him off guard and he starts, almost tumbling from the bed. The only thing that saves him are his quick reflexes, which allow him to pull himself back up at the last second.

"Have you been chewing my socks again?!" Monroe's voice carries in from the other room, obstructed by the sound of scrubbing and the toothbrush that's no doubt lodged in his mouth. Nick frowns. He holds up the soggy, saliva-coated sock and can hardly believe his eyes. "I told you to leave those alone! If your teeth are hurting again then just tell me. Or, I don't know, bite your _own _socks for a change! Now _there's _a revolutionary thought. No, wait, let me guess, you've taken them off again, too?" After rinsing and spitting, he heaves a sigh. "We've been over this, man. Socks equal warm feet. No socks equal cold feet. See what I'm getting at? You can't have it both ways."

What the hell?

What does Monroe think he is? An idiot? Of course, he's-

Nick glances down at his feet and notes with chagrin that they are, alas, cold and sock-less. Well, shoot.

"Oh, and another thing! Do you happen to know what happened to my honeybush and lavender tea? Because, I've been thinking it over, but I simply can't recall scattering the sweetly-scented leaves over the floor and under the kitchen table." The accusation is not so much veiled as pointedly poking him right in the chest.

_What _on_ earth _is going on? Nick is so confused, filled with so many questions that he feels like he might possibly combust with the sheer force of their absurdity.

"I know you're awake," Monroe continues, oblivious to his friend's crisis. "Your whole, pretending-to-be-asleep-so-you-don't-get-in-trouble thing was so poorly executed, you may as well have been jumping up and down, yelling, _'it was me, it was me!' _It didn't work the first three times. It's certainly not going to work now."

He swallows hard. "M-Monroe?" His voice is raspy, and the shaky query stings his throat.

"_Nick_?" He sounds equally astounded.

Not two moments later, he's dashing into the room, clad in his pyjamas, and appearing completely and utterly out of his depth as he gazes down at his pitifully distressed charge grasping a limp sock in his hands with the most heartbreaking frown in existence.

Monroe crouches down in front of him. "Hey, buddy. Welcome back."

"Welcome.. back?"

His voice is painfully gentle. "You don't remember?"

Hugely dilated eyes jumping around the room, Nick shakes his head.

Monroe can smell the hint of fear and it makes his heart clench. "You, um, haven't really... been yourself for the last week or so."

"What do you mean, _'I haven't been myself?'_" A touch of heat enters his tone as his mouth twists. "What happened to me?"

"I can't really reveal that kinda stuff right now," Monroe offers up, eyes tightening in confliction. "If I divulge too much, it'll overwhelm you and you might never get your memory of the events back."

Nick grimaces. That… doesn't exactly inspire much confidence. "Do I really _want _to get my memory back?" he wonders warily.

For the first time since he came to the rescue, a smile hovers on his best friend's lips, who promptly chokes on a laugh.

"You most certainly do!" he enthuses, straightening. "How else am I gonna be able to make fun of you, huh? It wouldn't be fair to take advantage of your ignorant position and gullible nature. Are you seriously going to deprive me of those rare moments of comic relief? Because, I'm not gonna sugar coat it, you were a nightmare. Like, no joke. A complete and utter nightmare. You succeeded in interrupting _every. Single. Session _of Pilates and that's not all! You wanna know the worst part? _Those teeth, _I beg you not. Now, they might look fairly blunt and harmless, but just wait 'till you see what those bad boys did to my birthday cardigan - Wait, why are you laughing? Stop laughing at me! I'm serious!"

"I-" He stops, clutching his sides as the laughter gushes, seemingly unstoppable. "Ha-have n-no doubt-tha-that's true."

"If you think it's so funny then I'm sending you the bill!"

That only makes him laugh harder. "Hand-knitted, remember?" Nick squeezes out between snickers. "Non-refundable."

"Well, I ain't just talking about clothes," Monroe huffs. "I'm making a list, you got me? Of all the things you damaged. Then we'll see whose laughing."

"Probably still me."

Monroe feigns hurt, pressing a hand to his chest. "Now that's just disrespectful."

Still grinning, Nick shrugs.

He rolls his eyes.

"Come on, then, short-stuff," Monroe calls from over his shoulder as he heads out. "Might as well fix you some breakfast."

"Hey, does this mean I haven't been to work?" Nick bounces on the balls of his feet, restless and itching to get the day started. Without waiting for an answer, he continues musingly, "I should probably call the Caption. Let him know everything's back to normal and I'll be in as usual."

That stops the Blutbad in his tracks. Turning slowly, he suggests firmly, "Wouldn't it be better to wait until tomorrow? To be sure there aren't any nasty after-effects?" He poses it as a question, when in all actually, he has little to no intention of letting the pup walk out that front door.

Nick's face falls. "Are you sure? I feel fine."

Throwing his head back and groaning, Monroe mutters under his breath, "Sure, you'll _say_ that."

"Please, Monroe?"

And there it is. In all it's wretched glory.

The Doe-Eyed Backbone Exterminator.

"Aw, nuts," he drags both hands dramatically down his face, "I knew that look would come back to haunt me."

The younger man seems to be, if possible, more perplexed than ever, which - wouldn't you know? - easily makes it all the more compelling.

Man, who's he kidding?

There's nothing left to do but give in.

"_Fiiine_."

His answering smile is blinding. "Fantastic," Nick beams, as he fishes around in his pockets and eventually whips out his cell phone, which has suspiciously managed to come out the other side of this entire ordeal intact. Fate is definitely not on his side, that's for certain. "Oh, hey, Hank. Yeah, it's great to hear from you, too. Listen, did Renard tell you what's been going on? He did? Great. I'll be in, say, twenty?" A pregnant pause on the other end. Followed by tiny screeches of outrage. Nick sighs. "Could you just- It's not like that. I'm fine, Hank. Really. I just-I feel really animated for some reason, you know? Too much energy or something. I'll go crazy lounging around with nothing to do all day. Really, you'd be doing me a favour." He smiles. "So..see you in a few? Glad to hear it. Take care. Bye."

Monroe rolls his eyes for the second time.

Yip, he nods to himself, exactly like a puppy.

* * *

-GRIMM-GRIMM-GRIMM-

* * *

_Thank-you so much for reading. Please let me know what you think._

_I apologise for any bad language._


End file.
